Once Upon A Thursday
by bubbleteadesu
Summary: Punk rocker!England and fan!America's lives as they meet, become friends, and eventually fall in love; full summary inside!
1. Of Rainy Days and Forgotten Umbrellas

**Title:** Once Upon A Thursday  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> America/England  
><strong>Characters in this chapter: <strong>America, ~*mystery bartender*~, mentions of England and Prussia  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> AU (human names used); It all started with Punk Thursdays. Alfred stumbles upon a mini concert held in a small-time bar and falls in love...with Arthur Kirkland's voice. What started as admiration turns into friendship between this unlikely pair. But when Alfred finds himself falling in love with Arthur himself, he realizes that starting a relationship is not as easy as he thinks. Especially with someone like Arthur Kirkland.  
><strong>Warning:<strong> possible OOC?**  
>AN: <strong>written for the prompt: _Punk rocker!England and fan!America's lives as they meet, become friends, and eventually fall in love._ beta'd by strawberryburst at livejournal**  
>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own Hetalia.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One: Of Rainy Days and Forgotten Umbrellas<strong>

_There was a time when Alfred thought he had first met Arthur on a day with overcast skies and a forgotten umbrella. He got the details right; he was just mistaken about the specific situation._

Overhead, plump clouds fought for supremacy over an overcast sky, and Alfred immediately chided himself for forgetting his umbrella at home. It always rained whenever he failed to bring his umbrella with him.

His trusty yellow umbrella was at home, leaning against his doorjamb mockingly, but he knew that there really was nothing he could do anymore about his lack of protection against the rain. He was not, to use an over-used idiom, one to cry over spilt milk. All he could do now was quicken his steps and hope that he could reach the bus stop before the rain came.

Luck however was not on his side that night; fate was. Alfred was a long way from the bus stop when the rain fell, not in slow fat drops but in a deluge of thin wet needles, sharp and cold against his skin. He was getting soaked and he had to find some shelter, fast.

Luckily (fatefully), shelter was just around the corner.

* * *

><p>To Alfred's surprise, he was able to enter the bar without anybody asking him for proof that he was of legal age—surprising since he wasn't.<p>

But then it was just a small establishment, a homey pub whose neon signboard was blurred behind the misty blanket of rain. They probably didn't care much about such small details.

Alfred walked towards the bar counter and sat down, all damp coat and damp spirits. The bartender winked at him, as if in on his little secret. He leaned towards Alfred, a little too close actually, forcing him to back away, just a little bit.

"A drink to warm you up?" he asked. Alfred couldn't help noticing his thick French accent.

"Actually, I'm not supposed to drink yet," Alfred replied sheepishly. "I don't even know how I managed to get in here."

"Don't worry," the bartender replied, already pouring him a glass of brandy. "Drink's on the house."

He handed the glass to Alfred who downed it, bottoms up. It was warm and fiery as it went down his throat, just what he needed that cold night, and soon, he found himself asking for another glass.

He did not drink his next glass as quickly; he was certain he'd burn his throat otherwise and besides, he wasn't sure how long the bartender's generosity would last. He was going to savor this glass of brandy as if it were his last. And so, Alfred sipped his brandy slowly, savoring its taste together with his surroundings.

Alfred had been to several bars before, thanks to his roommate's, Gilbert's, connections. Yet, this bar was different. There were the usual scents of cigarette smoke and alcohol floating in the air; missing however was another scent that usually mixed in with the two—one that belonged to warm bodies pressed together, moving as one to the rhythm of club music.

In fact, there was no dancing and no music. Instead, an air of anticipation, of excitement, hung above the air. Something was going to happen; Alfred could feel it tingling in his nerves.

"Is something up tonight?" Alfred asked nonchalantly.

The bartender winked at him. "You're lucky, _mon cher_. You stumbled upon my bar on Punk Thursdays."

"Punk Thurs—" But Alfred wasn't able to finish his question because just then, the air of excitement all around him suddenly exploded into loud cheers. The other customers obviously knew something he didn't.

Alfred turned around and realized that somewhere a little to his right was actually a small makeshift stage. And atop it was an unassuming man of slight build, plugging in his amp, oblivious to the cheers around him. He wondered if, perhaps, this man was the punk star everyone was waiting for.

The answer stared Alfred right in the face as soon as the question slipped through his mind. The unassuming man _was_ obviously the one all these customers were waiting for. As soon as he stood up, his guitar slung across one shoulder, the unassuming air around him just upped and left. He _was_a punk star; it was all over his ripped shirt, his leather pants, his Union Jack-print Chuck Taylors and the Union Jack-print bandanna tied around his neck. Alfred couldn't help but stare as he thought that this man must be one hell of a Brit.

And then he started playing his guitar, cheers erupting from the crowd. And Alfred realized, that no, he wasn't just a punk star; he was _the_punk star.

His fingers flew across his guitar, with a speed and intensity that Alfred had never seen before. His riffs soared through the air, as did his voice, at times loud and brusque, and then suddenly soft, almost like a whisper to the wind. He played and he sang and he sent electricity through the air and into Alfred, jolting him, giving him goose bumps. Alfred found himself standing up, jumping up and down with the crowd, cheering until his throat felt hoarse.

The glass of brandy lay unfinished on the counter. A different kind of warmth now shot through Alfred's veins.

No, it wasn't warmth, it was white hot _electricity_.

* * *

><p>In the middle of the singing and the cheering and the pressing of warm bodies against each other—which had been absent just minutes ago—<p>

Something clicked in Alfred's mind.

He had seen this man before; he was sure of it. The question was, _where_?

* * *

><p>"Arthur Kirkland," the bartender replied to Alfred's question, almost wistfully.<p>

The show was over before most of the audience, including Alfred, even felt that it had truly started. Arthur Kirkland was off the stage and had exited via a back door. And Alfred still couldn't shake this feeling of déjà vu he had.

"Aren't you going to ask my name too, _mon cher_?" The bartender was obviously flirting with him now. But Alfred was too lost in his own thoughts. Forgetting that the brandy he had drunk was on the house, he set some bills on the counter and left.

(He'd soon find out the bartender's name anyways. After all, he'd be back the next Thursday, and the next Thursday, and the Thursday after that.)

* * *

><p>It was only when Alfred was wide awake on his bed later that night, silently following the winding cracks on the ceiling with his eyes, did he remember where he had first met Arthur Kirkland.<p>

The memory was blurred in his mind, shadowy figures hidden behind a rainy mist. But he could see it playing in his head well enough, and Arthur Kirkland, he was certain, was part of it.

* * *

><p><em>It was a rainy day, but unlike most other rainy days, Alfred had not forgotten to bring his umbrella with him that afternoon, one of only a few rare occasions.<em>

_As soon as the first fat wet drops fell from the overcast sky, Alfred, with a slight smugness, opened his bright yellow umbrella, a fist of sunshine against the grey skies. Humming to himself, he began to skip along happily, making sure to jump into every puddle that came into his path._

_"What a silly dolt." He heard someone mutter from somewhere in his shadowy surroundings._

_Immediately, he stumbled on a puddle and stopped, his heart jumping around in panic inside his chest. Could it be a….ghost? But then, wasn't it too early for anything, anyone to be out haunting him? It was only dusk for crying out loud! Weren't ghosts and other supernatural beings supposed to only appear during midnight at least?_

_With these jumbled thoughts jumping around in his head, Alfred began to quicken his pace. The sooner he got to the bus stop, the better._

_And that was when he saw_ him, _a drenched figure standing by the sidewalk._

_He stood under the rain, one hand holding a guitar case and the other inside the pocket of his drenched trench coat. His sandy blond bangs were wet and pressed against his face but Alfred could still see his expression, his mouth turned down in a thin disapproving frown. Alfred immediately felt like a kid caught red-handed stealing from a cookie jar._

_Immediately, he felt a wave of annoyance bubbling inside him. What did he do wrong now? He tried to channel his displeasure at the stranger's own apparent displeasure at him into a glare._

_Wrong move._

_As soon as he looked at the stranger,_ really _looked at him, Alfred began to see strange things. Things like sad sad eyes, staring right back at him from underneath those wet bangs. He could feel the bubbling feelings of annoyance inside him turning into something else. Pity? Or sympathy? He wasn't sure._

_Before he was completely aware of what was happening, Alfred found himself walking towards the stranger. He stood beside him, yellow umbrella wide open over their heads._

_"What do you think you're doing, git?" the stranger muttered, refusing to look at Alfred. He actually looked kind of embarrassed and to Alfred's surprise, he found his expression rather…cute._

_"I don't know either." Alfred replied, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "I guess now that I've seen you, I can't leave you under the rain anymore just like that."_

_And so they stood quietly side by side under Alfred's bright yellow umbrella._

_(It was actually a little too small for the both of them, and Alfred could feel cold raindrops splashing against his arm. But he didn't mind. Not at all.)_

_tbc_

* * *

><p>Some Notes:<p>

I'm so sorry for the short first chapter! This is actually kinda prologue-ish but I promise, the next chapter will have more action so please be patient with me m(_ _)m. This whole thing might end up being short actually, just around 3-5 chapters I guess? But hey, it might end up longer who knows XD? Anyways, I hope you all like my first multi-chapter fic in a long time haha |D.


	2. Six Degrees of Separation

**Title:** Once Upon A Thursday  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> America/England (Side Pairing in this chapter: Spain/Romano)  
><strong>Characters in this chapter: <strong>America, England, France, Spain, Prussia, Romano, Mentions of Hungary  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> AU (human names used); It all started with Punk Thursdays. Alfred stumbles upon a mini concert held in a small-time bar and falls in love...with Arthur Kirkland's voice. What started as admiration turns into friendship between this unlikely pair. But when Alfred finds himself falling in love with Arthur himself, he realizes that starting a relationship is not as easy as he thinks. Especially with someone like Arthur Kirkland.  
><strong>Warning:<strong> possible OOC?**  
>AN: <strong>written for the prompt: _Punk rocker!England and fan!America's lives as they meet, become friends, and eventually fall in love._ beta'd by strawberryburst at livejournal**  
>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own Hetalia.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: Six Degrees of Separation<br>(I can't believe you know each other as well!)  
><strong>

"Where were you last night?" Gilbert asked Alfred the next morning as he caught him walking into in the living room, gingerly avoiding the beer cans strewn carelessly around the floor.

It seemed that Gilbert had spent the night sleeping on the living room floor. He now sat in the middle of empty beer cans, potato chip wrappings and action movie DVDs with what suspiciously looked like porn titles thrown in, wearing a dazed and half-awake look on his face.

From the corner of his eye, Alfred also spotted a stranger asleep, face down, on the couch.

"Who's that?" he asked, pointing with his chin towards the man.

"Oh, him? He's Antonio, my friend. You know Lovino Vargas, the one who lives across our apartment? The one who hates my guts? This guy here's his boyfriend." Gilbert yawned, scratching the back of his messy head. "Poor guy here just got dumped, for the nth time actually, so he's staying here for a while. Don't worry, I bet Lovino's coming for him later."

He narrowed his eyes at Alfred, suddenly remembering something. "Wait a minute, kid. Ya haven't answered my question."

"Oh." Alfred smiled sheepishly. "I just got stuck in some bar because of the rain." He shrugged nonchalantly—even if deep inside, he was still brimming with the excitement of last night. "They actually had this thing called Punk Thursdays. It was really cool and all." He didn't say anything about the guitar riffs that shot electricity through his veins. Nothing about the British punk star and his wonderful voice, and songs speaking directly to his soul. Nothing about the warmth of the crowd as they moved as one to the beat of Arthur Kirkland. And absolutely nothing about the rain-dripped memory uncovered from deep inside his mind last night. Some things were meant to be kept only to himself; they were special that way.

"Punk Thursdays, huh?" Gilbert began to mutter silently to himself, though Alfred caught snippets like 'Francis' and 'not the only one with that gimmick, huh'.

"Ah, well," Gilbert said, now to Alfred. "Tell Elizaveta that I'll be skipping my morning shift today. I have one hell of a hangover and I don't want to nurse it by heating sandwiches and shit." With that said, he closed his eyes and fell right back into the middle of the litter on the floor.

"What?" Alfred protested. "Y-you can't leave me alone! I won't be able to handle all the customers by myself and besides, Elizaveta is so going to kill me if I don't bring you with me!" But Gilbert was sound asleep—or at least, pretending to be, judging by his louder-than-usual snoring.

From the couch, the stranger gave a resounding snore.

* * *

><p>The week passed by like a blur.<p>

Everyday, Alfred worked hard at the convenience store with Gilbert and the manager, Elizaveta Hedervary, restocking shelves, reheating sandwiches and packed lunches and trying his best to cope with the regular influx of customers. Afterwards, as soon as he got home, and if he wasn't bone-tired yet from his job, Alfred would bring out a notebook and a pen and try to calculate his savings for the month. Though more often than not, he would find himself staring outside the window at the stars he knew were in the night sky, hidden behind the city smog. After all, numbers rarely held his attention. Stars did.

(Because those stars reminded him of a dream, a dream that involved rocket ships, shooting stars, and galaxies far far away. It was that dream after all that pushed him to work hard, everyday.)

And Antonio, the once-stranger who had first slept at Alfred's house last Thursday, was still at their apartment, contrary to what Gilbert said about him getting back together with Lovino Vargas soon.

"Poor guy," Gilbert said, shaking his head. "Every time I come home from work, he's just there moping around. He's not even the mopey kind of guy. It's really worrisome."

Alfred couldn't agree more. Every time he arrived at their apartment, Antonio would be there, with this aura of…_depression_ surrounding him. Sometimes, Alfred would find him just sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the television screen playing action flicks over and over again. He could already feel the gloominess starting to cling to his being, suffocating him. Something really had to be done.

"Maybe what he needs is a change of environment," Alfred suggested as he arranged packs of instant noodles on the shelf.

Gilbert's eyes lit up. "That's it! Hey, Alfred, isn't today Thursday? You can take me to that bar you chanced upon last week." He grinned. "Small-town bar, new environment, new _women_. _Perfect_."

Alfred would have smacked his forehead with his hand if he wasn't holding a bunch of instant noodles. How could he forget _Thursday_? He had been looking forward to it the whole week!

"Of course I'll take you there!"

* * *

><p>"But my darlings, today is a Wednesday," the bartender informed them, amused.<p>

In fairness to Alfred and Gilbert, days become hard to keep track of if they're spent doing the same menial things over and over again.

* * *

><p>"I can't believe it!" Gilbert said for the nth time that night. "Alfred really has met you already, Francis."<p>

"Well," Francis replied, setting three bottles of beer on the counter. "To the boy's defense, he didn't ask for my name." He winked at Alfred. "Only Arthur's."

Gilbert laughed loudly at this, and Alfred could feel his face turning red right to the tips of his hair. "It's not like what you're thinking!" Alfred explained hotly. "I just think he's a great singer, that's all."

However, curiosity soon overcame embarrassment, and since Gilbert was still finding it difficult to control his laughter, Alfred turned to Francis.

"So," he asked casually—even if there was certainly nothing _casual _about his interest in the British singer. "You guys know Arthur Kirkland, huh?"

Francis nodded. "Oh yes, I do know him. We were, ahem, _more than friends_ back in college." He suddenly leaned forward, as if letting Alfred in on a secret. "_Mon cher_, if I were you, I wouldn't fall for Arthur Kirkland. He's a good guy, but once he finds out you like him, he's going to rip your heart out, smash it on the floor and then stomp on the pieces." He shook his head as Alfred stifled a giggle. "I'm serious! It hurts and I don't want that to happen to such a nice guy like you."

"I won't." Alfred replied promptly. Of course he won't. He was sure of it.

* * *

><p>The night went on and the three of them—Gilbert, Francis and Alfred—were enjoying it, drinking bottles of beer and catching up on each other's lives.<p>

However, the main reason why they even decided to come to the bar, Antonio, was still sitting despondently a little far off from them.

Finally, Alfred decided to sit a little closer to him. The poor guy looked like he needed the company and besides, Alfred was starting to feel a little left out as Francis and Gilbert started to reminisce about their college life.

Antonio had his chin on the counter, his own bottle of beer untouched and starting to warm up in front of him. Watching his profile from beside him, Alfred thought that Antonio's face wasn't made for frowning. It had all those smile crinkles around his eyes and mouth and it was easy to imagine him all smiles and sunshine.

"Is it worth it?" he blurted out. "Falling in love?"

Antonio turned, only noticing Alfred's presence when he spoke. Slowly, a small smile formed on his lips. "Well _querido_, I'd hate you to think that falling in love isn't worth it judging by pathetic little me. You see, I will never trade the feeling of falling in love and remaining in love with any other feeling in the world. It's something I don't regret doing." He began ripping the label off his beer bottle with his thumbnail, quietly lost in his own thoughts.

"Antonio, you bastard! So you were here all along!"

Both of them turned to see a familiar red-faced Italian standing behind them.

"Uh-oh," Alfred whispered to Antonio . "It's Lovino and it looks like he's mad at us." And Alfred knew from experience that it was best to avoid Lovino when he was mad.

But Antonio was already gone from Alfred's side, walking quickly towards Lovino.

"You bastard!" Lovino raged. "I came for you at that fucking _German_'s apartment and you were gone! And where do I find you? In a fucking bar of all places! How dare you play around while you're still my—" He suddenly stopped himself, blushing furiously.

But Antonio had heard everything he wanted to hear. Amidst Lovino's protests, he pulled him closer into a hug.

"What are you doing, you idiot! Not here!" Lovino spluttered out over and over again. But Antonio continued to hold him and Lovino's angry words grew softer and softer until Alfred could barely hear them. "Let's go home, idiot."

Alfred wondered if he was the only one who saw it, but somehow it seemed like the room was growing bigger and bigger until the people around were nothing but a blurred part of the background. And at the center was only a tall Spaniard, now all smiles, holding a red-faced Italian close to him as if nothing mattered. And it looked beautiful.

_Maybe it really is worth it. _Alfred thought.

And then Gilbert shouted something along the lines of "Now to celebrate the happy lovebirds! Drinks on the house!" and Lovino angrily called Gilbert a variety of curses in two languages, and the moment was gone.

* * *

><p>In the middle of the ensuing happy chaos, Alfred decided to slip out of the bar via the back door.<p>

The back door, he found out, led to an alley. It was quiet, aside from the music from inside the bar which now seemed like a far-away throbbing at the back of his head. Alfred leaned back against the brick wall and started savoring the peace of the night when he noticed someone else standing a few spaces away from him.

He, too, was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, and he looked awfully familiar. Sandy blond hair. A trench coat, slightly scruffy along the bottom. Leather pants that hugged his legs and his—Alfred could barely suppress the blush creeping up his cheeks—_ass _a little too nicely. And the all-too-familiar Union Jack Chuck Taylors.

"You're Arthur Kirkland!" Alfred blurted out excitedly.

He looked at Alfred, a surprised expression on his face. "Yes, yes I am. How did you know?"

Alfred could barely contain himself. "I watched you last Thursday and you were so, so _awesome_! The way you play your guitar, the way you sing! You're just amazing!"

"Really now?" Arthur murmured. "I didn't think there was anyone who'd like my music so thank you."

Alfred wanted to say a million things at once. Things like, _Are you crazy? People absolutely _love_ you! _or _I'm Alfred Jones and the one thing I look forward to every week is your performance. Your music inspires me. _or _Do you still remember that rainy afternoon when you were standing drenched at the sidewalk and someone came and covered you with a yellow umbrella? That was me actually. _But Arthur gave his cigarette one last puff, picked up his guitar case leaning against the wall beside him and walked away without even a last glance at Alfred.

And the words were left hanging silently in the still night air of that empty back alley. Another one of many regrets.

* * *

><p>Alfred didn't think he'd get to talk to Arthur again. He felt Arthur was like those celebrities you watched on TV. You idolized them, you loved them and you even reached a point where you felt like they'd become a part of your life. But you could never be a part of theirs. They'd always be a little out of reach.<p>

That was what Alfred thought. Until four Thursdays had passed.

* * *

><p>This particular Punk Thursday was better than usual. Alfred was able to sneak into a spot closer to the stage and somehow, up close, Arthur looked even more larger-than-life. Alfred could now see him better: the sweat beading against his forehead, causing his bangs to stick to his face. The black eyeliner outlining his bright green eyes. His fingers, thin but fast across his guitar. His bass sounded even louder up close, Alfred's heart pounding as one with it.<p>

Sadly, it ended a little earlier than usual at a quarter before one. Still filled with the excitement of the night, Alfred did not feel like turning in for the night just yet. So he went to the coffee shop next door, ordered a cup of coffee with lots of cream and sugar, and chose a seat by the window.

The chimes hanging by the door rang, signaling the entrance of another customer. Alfred instinctively looked up.

He almost spat out his coffee; instead he swallowed it quickly, almost scalding his throat. He watched as Arthur glanced through the menu then turned and walked away without ordering anything.

But Arthur did not walk out of the door. Not yet. Instead, to Alfred's surprise, he walked towards Alfred's table.

"Would you agree if I said that the coffee at the diner across the street is better than the one here?" Arthur asked, a small smile on his lips.

"I guess so." Alfred replied.

"Then what are you still doing here?"

Arthur walked out the door with Alfred following him. He didn't regret leaving his half-drunk coffee behind. It was watery anyway.

* * *

><p>After the usual introductions, they began chatting about everything under the sun.<p>

"So tell me, Alfred," Arthur said, in between sips of his hot tea, "what do you do for a living?"

The words were about to spill out of Alfred when he suddenly realized what he was about to answer. He was a _convenience store employee_. It just _paled_ in comparison to Arthur's rock star life.

Sensing his discomfort, Arthur gave him a smile—one of only the few rare ones he gave out, Alfred would find out later on. "Don't worry. I won't judge you unless you're secretly a serial killer or something along those lines."

"I work at a convenience store a few blocks from here," Alfred finally admitted.

"See?" Arthur said, stirring his tea. "That wasn't so hard, wasn't it?"

Alfred nibbled on a ketchup-covered fry. "But it's just not as _cool _as what you do! I mean, you're a _rock star_!"

"Actually no, I'm not," Arthur corrected him. "I think 'small-time musician' is the more accurate term. See? Not as cool as you think."

He looked out the window, murmuring more to himself than to anyone else. "My life isn't as perfect as you think."

* * *

><p>"Tell me Alfred," Arthur asked after a while, "do you happen to play the guitar?"<p>

"I used to," Alfred replied, finishing the last of the fries. "Though it's been a while and I hardly have the time to practice anymore."

"Do you think you could keep up with my playing?"

It sounded like a challenge to Alfred and Alfred _never_ backed down from a challenge. "Of course! I'd just need a little practice and then," he leaned closer to Arthur, a smug smile on his lips. "I can take anyone on, even _you_."

"Great." Arthur took a pen from his pocket and a tissue from the table and began to write down something. He folded it and slipped it under Alfred's hand. "Meet me this Saturday at eleven in the morning."

Then he stood up and walked out of the diner, leaving behind an almost-empty cup of tea and a piece of paper, clenched tightly in Alfred's fist.

_tbc_

* * *

><p>Some Notes:<p>

First off, thank you so much for all the reviews, faves and alerts from the last chapter! &hearts. They really made me happy o w o. I hope you guys like this chapter just as much! I was actually surprised at how fast this chapter was written haha XD. Hopefully I can update just as fast for the next chapter however I can't promise anything orz;. Also, I hope nobody minds the Spain/Romano scene I shamelessly inserted :D;;. They won't be appearing much again so please bear with me ahahaha~.

Also, I realized that I forgot to insert some dividers in the last chapter orz;. I edited it already so you guys can reread it if you want :D;;.


	3. Rockin' Out With The Cereal Killers

**Title:** Once Upon A Thursday  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> America/England  
><strong>Characters in this chapter: <strong>America, England, Japan, Finland, Mentions of Sweden  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> AU (human names used); It all started with Punk Thursdays. Alfred stumbles upon a mini concert held in a small-time bar and falls in love...with Arthur Kirkland's voice. What started as admiration turns into friendship between this unlikely pair. But when Alfred finds himself falling in love with Arthur himself, he realizes that starting a relationship is not as easy as he thinks. Especially with someone like Arthur Kirkland.  
><strong>Warning:<strong> possible OOC?**  
>AN: <strong>Sorry for the late chapter! I hoped I made up for it by posting an extra long chapter; more than 4000 words XD! Also, just a bit of a disclaimer: I know absolutely nothing about guitars and drums and musical instruments. I researched a bit by watching guitar lessons on youtube but idk, I probably still made a lot of mistakes. Sorry for that! As usual, beta'd by strawberryburst at livejournal**  
>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own Hetalia.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: Rockin' Out With <em>The Cereal Killers<em>**

"It's been a while since I last saw you with your guitar, Alfred**,**" Tino commented as Alfred lugged along a guitar case towards a stool by the cash register.

"Ah well," Alfred explained a little sheepishly, plugging in his amp, "someone asked me to play my guitar for him tomorrow and I thought I'd let you hear first, see how rusty my skills are now."

It would come as a surprise to many that Tino Väinämöinen, Alfred's landlord and owner of a flower shop in the apartment's lobby, actually once fronted a heavy metal band. After all, there was no sign of a head-banging rock star written anywhere on Tino's petite frame and sweet timid face.

So when Peter, Tino's adopted son, told Alfred with a hint of pride that his papa was once a rock star, complete with tattoos, make-up, metal chain jewelry, and all that, Alfred had immediately assumed that he was talking about his other papa, Tino's husband, Berwald. After all, Alfred could easily picture Berwald hitting some drums while banging his head to its beat, with his gruff and-though Alfred hated to admit it-scary appearance.

Imagine Alfred's surprise after he asked Tino casually if Berwald still played drums for his band, and Tino, laughing, replied that Berwald had never been a part of any musical group, as far as Tino knew at least.

"I used to sing and play the guitars for a band though," he added a little wistfully. "We used to play hard-core punk and metal. It was fun."

Complete and utter shock must have been written on Alfred's face because-probably to make up for the astounding revelation-Tino offered to teach Alfred a few chords, and well, when else can Alfred hope to meet someone who'll teach him how to play the guitar? He'd always wanted to learn after all so he played with Tino for a few months. That was about a year ago.

Now, as Alfred sat by the cash register and played a few chords on his guitar while Tino arranged the flowers on display, he felt a familiar warmth starting to burn inside of him. The smooth mahogany surface of his guitar felt comforting underneath his palm and his fingertips throbbed with notes he thought he had long forgotten, itching to escape and make some beautiful music again. He started to strum a familiar song, the notes just coming to him automatically as he moved his fingers across the strings. He hadn't realized it before but he had missed this, playing the guitar at a corner of Tino's flower shop, forgetting all the cares he had.

"You sound good," Tino told Alfred after he had finished a short song, "great even for someone who hasn't played for a while." He laughed. "Are you sure you haven't touched that guitar in a year?"

Alfred grinned proudly. "I guess it's just hard to forget these kinds of things." He hoped that Arthur would be just as impressed.

* * *

><p>Saturday came, and Alfred found himself in the slightly upper-class part of town, in front of a Japanese-style house hidden behind a brown gate.<p>

After hesitating for quite a while, Alfred finally knockedon the gate. Three sharp raps while butterflies flitted around in his stomach.

It was Arthur who opened the door for him. He eyed Alfred critically, and Alfred suddenly felt self-conscious, coming in only a worn red sweater and baggy pants while Arthur looked sharp in a graphic tee hidden under a partly-open cardigan and jeans.

He must have stared quite a while,busily admiring-_the way those skinny jeans were hugging Arthur's legs-_ his casually sharp outfit that Arthur had to give a low but very conspicuous cough to catch his attention .

"Git, are you coming in or what?"

* * *

><p>The house looked just as Japanese inside the gates as it did on the outside, even more so now that Alfred could see the paper sliding doors, the slightly-raised wooden porch and the winding stone path that led to a small pond with water lilies floating on top of it. Alfred glanced at Arthur walking quickly in front of him, and then back at his surroundings, and he secretly wondered if Arthur really lived in this place. The environment just felt so <em>Zen<em>, a complete antithesis to the musical noise and chaos that so characterized Arthur's music.

Alfred walked quickly as he tried to match his steps, wondering if maybe Arthur, too, needed peace and quiet every once in a while.

"Nice place you've got here, Arthur," Alfred commented casually.

"Do I look like I could afford a place like this?" Arthur scoffed.

"Er…why not?" Alfred replied, a little sheepishly. _Well, at least that was cleared up…_

Instead of entering the quintessential Japanese house, as Alfred expected, Arthur led him to the backyard, to a small shoebox-shaped shed standing at the edge of the yard.

As soon as they entered the shed, bursts of color immediately met Alfred's eyes.

There was no sign of the drab grey anymore on the walls of the room; every inch was covered by various posters, mostly of punk bands-some of which Alfred had never seen nor heard of before, Union Jack flags in different sizes, several variations of _Keep Calm and Carry On__**,**_and posters of different anime series and Japanese animated movies. It was a blindingly colorful collage and Alfred found it hard to peel his eyes away from them. However, there were other interesting things scattered around that called for Alfred's attention.

One corner of the room had several different-sized amps standing carelessly side-by-side in it. One wall was purely devoted to electric guitars of different sizes, shapes and colors. They were like a rainbow in Alfred's eyes, a rainbow that could make beautiful**,** beautiful music if one knew the right way to coax it out of them. At the very back of the room was a drum set, and standing beside it was an unassuming Asian man. As soon as Alfred met his brown eyes, the man immediately lowered his head in a shy bow.

"That's my friend, Kiku Honda," Arthur said, an unlit cigarette already dangling from the corner of his mouth. "He owns this house and he plays the drums for me too." He turned to Kiku. "Kiku, this is Alfred Jones. He's going to play guitars for us."

Kiku bowed again, more pronounced this time. "Good morning, Alfred-san. Please forgive my humble home."

"Oh no, no, it's really awesome actually," Alfred said, bowing back. "And you don't have to add _–san_ to my name anymore, whatever you mean by that. Just Alfred is fine."

Kiku looked taken aback. "But I would hate to be so forward, Alfred-san!"

"No, really, just Alfred is fi-"

Arthur walked towards Alfred and placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in mid-sentence. He sighed, as if he had seen this conversation happening a little too many times already. "Kiku, please just help Alfred set his equipment up. We really don't have all day to spare."

* * *

><p>"One, two, <em>one two three four!"<em>

As soon as the words left his lips, Kiku started banging on his drums with an energy one wouldn't expect from someone as gentle-looking as him. And then Arthur entered, playing that bass of his as beautifully as always. It took all of Alfred's willpower not to stop and stare, mesmerized, at how flawlessly effortless Arthur's fingers moved over the strings of his guitar, coaxing out beautiful, intense riffs. But Alfred had to concentrate. Alfred had to concentrate because, after three and a half hours, he had learned a new fact about Arthur Kirkland:

He was _such_ a perfectionist.

Arthur stopped again in the middle of the song for the nth time that day and sent a vicious glare towards

Alfred, who had now dropped his fingers from his guitar too.

"You're playing in the wrong beat again! Listen to Kiku, you bloody idiot!"

"_I was listening to him! _God, Arthur, will you just stop _nitpicking _every goddamn thing in the world and let us finish this song?"

"I most certainly am not_ nitpicking_! If I only knew you were this _mediocre_-"

Alfred had already opened his mouth to let out a furious retort when Kiku stepped in between them and said softly but firmly, "Why don't we just call it a day for now?" A small ripple of a sentence that somehow stopped the furious crashing of two giant angry waves.

Arthur had already begun to pack up his guitar and amp. "Well, fine," he muttered, rather unconvincingly. He now had a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, blowing spirals of smoke into the air. Kiku gave him a disapproving look upon seeing this though he did not say anything**.**

Arthur slung his guitar case over his shoulder and was on his way out when he stopped, hand on the doorknob. He removed his cigarette from his lips and turned slowly to where Alfred now knelt, beside his own guitar.

"Come back next Saturday, same time."

Then he left, rather abruptly, and Alfred let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

* * *

><p>"And here I was thinking he was so <em>cool," <em>Alfred ranted to Kiku as he chomped on a red bean paste bun Kiku had brought from his house. "Seems like he's just a grumpy, nitpicky, _totally not cool, _old man with frumpy eyebrows after all."

Kiku sat across Alfred on the floor of their practice room, sipping his tea with an aura of calmness. "But you are coming back next Saturday, Alfred-san?"

"Well, yeah," Alfred replied, suddenly feeling quite embarrassed. "Uhmm, I realized while playing with you guys that I missed this. Holding my guitar and just letting out all my feelings through music, as cheesy as that sounds."

Kiku let out a small smile. "Well, that's good to hear, Alfred-san. I have to ask though; do you even know why Arthur invited you to play with us?"

Alfred stuck out his tongue and licked the corner of his mouth, where crumbs of bean paste still lingered. "No, actually," he replied. "Can I ask you why? Or are you and Arthur planning to keep it as a big secret from me?"

Kiku let out a quiet laugh. "No, no of course not! Forgive us if you had that impression." He picked up a bun from the plate in front of them and nibbled at it before continuing. "Arthur and I were once classmates at university. We were both in the College of Music." He chuckled. "However, Arthur dropped out in our third year. He felt that the strict boundaries of college were stifling his creativity."

Surprisingly, at least to Alfred, he still found himself sitting up a little straighter, his ears perking a bit, his heart beating a little faster in excitement, at hearing every miniscule fact about Arthur, even after all the rows and nasty little spats they'd had throughout the afternoon.

"And then?" he prompted Kiku, hoping that Kiku wouldn't notice the giddiness he was feeling flowing all over inside of him, right down to the tips of his fingers.

"And then," Kiku continued, a little amused at Alfred's eagerness, "just recently, some of our friends from college called Arthur up, asked if he wanted to participate in this Battle of the Bands they were having for the school fair. Apparently, some scouts from record companies looking for new indie artists to sign up were going to be there and obviously, Arthur took the chance. He called me up and asked if I wanted to play the drums for him. And of course I said yes. However, apparently, we needed one more member, a guitarist. Arthur told me he'd take care of it and here you are." He smiled at Alfred.

"Why me though?" Alfred wondered out loud. "We've never talked to each other before that night. He didn't even know for sure if I played the guitar."

"Arthur-san has his ways, I guess." Kiku replied, setting down his half-eaten bun on the plate. "He probably had a, what do you call it, lucky hunch about you."

He suddenly looked serious, his brown eyes meeting Alfred's blue ones imploringly. "Please forgive Arthur if he is hard on you, Alfred-san. You see, this contest really means a lot to him."

"Alright." Alfred mumbled, suddenly feeling awkward. What was there to forgive after all, if he wasn't even angry in the first place?

* * *

><p>A week before the competition, Arthur entered the practice room holding a form in his hands, a pencil tucked behind his ear.<p>

He called both Alfred and Kiku forward, and they sat in a small circle in the middle of the room.

"I have friends organizing this," Arthur explained, "so I could delay filling up this entry form until the last minute." He held his pencil poised over the paper.

"What do we call ourselves, Artie?" Alfred asked, his eyes quickly skimming the form.

Arthur hit the back of Alfred's head lightly. "Who gave you the permission to call me Artie?"

"Well, I figured after four Saturdays of putting up with you, I could finally call you Artie."

"People who've known me for _years _don't even call me Artie, you bloody idiot!"

"What do we call our group, Arthur-san? Alfred-san?" Kiku asked, patiently steering them back to the topic at hand.

"Well…" Arthur said thoughtfully, "we used to call ourselves the Anglo-Japanese Alliance back in college, right Kiku?"

"Yeah," Alfred replied, rather peevishly, "however, I'm here now and I'm American through and through so you can't call yourselves that now."

"Do you have any brilliant ideas then, idiot?" Arthur asked sardonically.

"How about," Arthur grinned widely, "The Cereal Killers!"

"_The Cereal Killers?_ Are you _insane?_"

"I've always wanted to form a band called The Cereal Killers_, _ya know. Always thought it was a cool name. What do you think, Kiku?"

"I think it's a rather, ah, catchy name."

"Oh no, not you too Kiku!"

"Oh c'mon Artie, lighten up," Alfred said, grinning even wider. He grabbed the pencil from Arthur and proceeded to write on the form, in large scrawling letters, the name of their band. "It's a fun name."

Arthur sighed, massaging his temples as if expecting a headache to come real soon.

* * *

><p>Alfred peered out of a little gap in the curtains hiding them backstage.<p>

"Damn, Arthur, there's like a _thousand_ people out there."

"That's impossible," Arthur replied, though he didn't sound quite so sure himself. He sat cross-legged on the dusty floor beside their equipment, trying to light a smoke before they went onstage. Alfred could see him struggling with the lighter even in the dark, his hand shaking violently, and Alfred, though guiltily, couldn't help feeling relieved. He wasn't the only one feeling queasy after all.

They heard a perky disembodied voice from out on stage: "Next up is the punk rock band, '_The Cereal Killers'_!".

Unseen in a dark corner, Kiku spoke, soft but clear. "It's our turn to go onstage now, Arthur-san, Alfred-san."

Arthur stood up, a steely sort of determination reflected in his eyes. "Let's win this battle then."

Alfred willed his hand to stop shaking so violently, before he could accidentally drop his guitar and shatter it into a million pieces.

* * *

><p>It was even worse onstage than what Alfred had expected.<p>

The audience looked like little pin-prick lights from a distance, all moving in different directions yet their eyes, or at least their ears, all turned to them. He swayed on the spot, feeling slightly nauseated.

From the corner of his eye, he looked at Arthur, who looked quite pale himself. Arthur turned and met Alfred's eyes, just a short split-second that Alfred could have missed it if he wasn't staring at Arthur in the first place. He mouthed the words, so quickly that Alfred could barely read it: _You ready?_

Alfred took a deep breath. _As ready as I will ever be._

Arthur then glanced at Kiku, who nodded.

"One, two, _one two three four!"_

If Kiku was nervous, his playing didn't show it. He hit those drums with just as much energy as he did during practice, if not even more. Alfred soon found himself tapping his feet to the familiar beat.

And Arthur, _Arthur._ Arthur played as flawlessly as always, and Alfred dared say that he just wasn't being biased here. He ran his guitar pick through the strings so quickly that Alfred could barely see it, and he was standing right next to Arthur at that. The notes and riffs soared through the air with much intensity and energy as Arthur sang the song that he, himself, wrote, sometimes with loud hoarse shouts and sometimes with soft whispered murmurs, all in tune with the emotion he wanted everyone to feel. Alfred could already feel the goose bumps rising on his skin.

And Alfred? Well, Alfred could say that he was playing quite well. He gave everything he had, all his heart and soul, as cheesy as that may sound, into his playing, willing his fingers to strum those strings with just as much passion as his band mates played. _His band mates-_that actually sounded pretty cool!

(Sometimes, Alfred would take the time to wink or flash a wide grin at the audience, who would respond by cheering widely. Arthur rolled his eyes but let him be.)

The song was soon over before Alfred realized it. And the audience-Alfred couldn't believe what his ears were hearing.

They were practically going _wild_.

_More, more, more! _Their cheers and calls for an encore were a thunderous din in Alfred's ears. He glanced at Kiku, who had ducked his face behind his drum set, blushing furiously, then at Arthur, whose bright green eyes glowed with fierce pride.

Arthur glanced at Alfred. "Well, are you up for one more song?"

Alfred grinned. "Thought you'd never ask."

* * *

><p>At the end of the day, they had to settle for second place.<p>

They packed their equipment at the back stage quietly-or rather Kiku and Alfred did. Arthur was too busy sitting at a corner, smoking a cigarette and brooding quietly. The silence was stuffy, suffocating, and Alfred couldn't handle it anymore.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "My playing really was mediocre, wasn't it?"

Both Kiku and Arthur looked up, surprised. Alfred could feel his face suddenly burning up.

Kiku opened his mouth to speak but Arthur beat him to it.

"Of course not, you silly dolt," he said softly. "Do you think I'd have let you stay this long if I didn't think you had the talent?"

Alfred tried to say something in reply but no words came to him. So he watched quietly as Arthur resumed his smoke, still quietly thoughtful.

In the days that Alfred had spent around Arthur, he had noticed one thing about him: Arthur's eyes almost always betrayed everything. Forget the sardonic remarks or the gruff exterior, everything he needed to know was in those bright green eyes.

Even in the dark back stage, Alfred could see it; Arthur's eyes were almost lifeless, dim green eyes reflecting the disappointment of seeing himself pushed down one step farther from his dream.

And that was when it hit Alfred, painfully slapping him across the face. He was being terribly, _terribly_, selfish. It wasn't he who needed comforting; it was Arthur. It was Arthur after all who had everything invested in this contest.

_But what can I do, what can I do_-suddenly Alfred walked towards where Arthur was sitting and grabbed his hand. Partly due to Arthur's surprise and partly due to Alfred's incredible strength, Alfred easily pulled Arthur off the floor and along with him.

"W-where are you taking me?" Arthur spluttered out, already recovered from his initial surprise.

Alfred beamed widely at him. "The afternoon hasn't ended yet so we still have a few hours to enjoy the fair. Let's go!"

Arthur turned helplessly to Kiku. "Kiku, why don't you join us?"

Kiku shook his head, a small smile on his face. "Oh no, I'm perfectly fine here, Arthur-san! Besides, I have a few old friends I have to greet too."

Before he completely pulled Arthur out of the back stage, Alfred could swear that he saw Kiku wink at him.

* * *

><p>The fair was like some sort of carnival, Alfred thought, with students setting up the booths where visitors could play and win prizes all around the school grounds.<p>

Alfred had treated both Arthur and himself to a sundae cone, and Alfred couldn't help noticing, pleased, how Arthur's eyes were now starting to brighten up, as he licked the strawberry ice cream trickling down his cone.

"I've always wondered what a college fair was like," Alfred said. He ducked his head sheepishly at the look of bemusement on Arthur's face.

"But doesn't your university have them?" he asked.

"I don't attend college, at least not yet," Alfred shrugged, "Haven't got the funds yet."

They walked again, lapsing into silence, until Arthur said, "Well, I think college is overrated anyways."

Alfred laughed. "Yeah, I figured you'd say that. Kiku said you dropped out when you were in your third year."

Color tinged Arthur's cheeks but he spoke with a hint of unrepentant pride. "I refused to be stifled by boundaries, that's all."

Alfred laughed even louder. "Yeah, right." They walked on again, admiring the colorful booths standing all around them-or at least that was what Alfred thought, until he realized that Arthur was now nowhere beside him, having stopped in front of a certain booth.

Alfred caught up to him and placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder; Arthur jumped a little, startled.

"What are you looking at?" Alfred asked. Arthur pretended not to hear him and was already starting to turn away but Alfred grabbed his hand, effectively stopping him.

"I see now." Alfred told Arthur, grinning at him. He pointed at a huge fluffy stuffed unicorn hanging inside the booth. "You want that, do you?"

"O-of course not!" Arthur said hotly. He tried to tug his hand off Alfred's grip. "Let's go now, Alfred."

But Alfred stubbornly pulled him towards the booth. The student manning it brightened up at the sight of new customers.

"What do I have to do to win that unicorn?" Alfred asked, pointing to the toy in question.

"All you have to do is hit those cans over there," the student pointed to a pyramid of soda cans standing behind him, "with these balls." He placed three bright red rubber balls in Alfred's palm. "However, that unicorn's a grand prize. You can only get it if you topple all cans with one throw," the student finished smugly, his eyes silently telling Alfred that there was no way he could do it.

But Alfred wasn't listening to him anymore. He positioned himself as if throwing a pitch from a baseball mound and threw, effectively toppling the pyramid and even sending some cans flying around the booth.

Alfred flashed a winning smile at the student, who now ducked behind his booth, covering his head with both hands. "Can I get the unicorn now?"

* * *

><p>"You didn't have to get me the unicorn, you silly dolt," Arthur murmured, hugging the stuffed unicorn close to him. Somehow, Alfred knew that was Arthur's way of saying thanks and he grinned.<p>

The sky was now a blend of oranges and purples, and from the distance, Alfred could already see the moon rising up. He had just spent the rest of the afternoon with Arthur Kirkland; it honestly didn't even feel like an hour had passed.

He glanced at Arthur, who now had his face buried in his stuffed unicorn. In just one day, he had already seen multiple facets of Arthur: Arthur the cool and collected punk star, Arthur, the man who had to endure being pushed back down the steep steps towards his dreams but picked himself up afterwards, even eating a strawberry sundae with Alfred under the afternoon sun, and Arthur who was now holding a pink stuffed unicorn close to himself, bathed in the beautiful colors of dusk.

"Hey Arthur," Alfred murmured. Arthur glanced at him, an eyebrow raised slightly in curiosity. "Yes?"

"Can we be friends?" Alfred had never dreamt that he would be able to say these four simple words to Arthur. Even just this last Punk Thursday, Arthur had still seemed like a distant star, far beyond Alfred's reach.

"Well," Arthur replied slowly, deliberately, "you did give me a stuffed unicorn."

"So all it takes to win your heart is a pink unicorn?" Alfred teased.

Arthur hit the back of Alfred's head lightly with his pink unicorn. "Who said anything about winning anybody's heart? Be careful young man, or I'll give back your offer of friendship."

Alfred laughed. "Oh Artie, stop being so stuffy."

"_Don't call me Artie!_"

Alfred laughed even louder. The day had ended even better than he had expected. Loads better.

_tbc_

* * *

><p>Some Notes:<p>

Once again, thank you to everyone who read and left lovely reviews for the previous chapter! Also a huge thank you to everyone who added this story to their favorites and alerts &hearts. I really appreciate it. And to others who're just new to this fic or have never left a comment before or rather prefer lurking, don't be shy about leaving a comment! Promise, I don't bite ;3.

I'm so sorry for the delay with this chapter! A lot of things happened I guess. A mix of school (investigative research season orz), writer's block and, ehehehe, Post-Potter depression (which involved rereading the books over and over again and looking through a lot of Harry Potter tumblrs. I'M SORRY I COULDN'T HELP IT). But at least I got this done and it's 2000+ more words than the previous chapter at that /o/. Longer than any one-shot I've written (aside from my minibang fic of course) so I hope you guys enjoy it

A little background on the band name: back when I was in grade school, we had this project where we had to group ourselves and pretend that we were forming a band. My friend suggested we name ourselves The Cereal Killers because er, we like cereal? Idk idk. But I guess the name stuck with me through the years? Idk, I think it's a cool name (I hope I'm not the only one thinking this...).


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